Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
by LawyerGirl1
Summary: "You're going to have to accept this pregnancy. It's going to kill you if you don't." The story of why Emily and Richard only had one child. Reviews are like birthday cake, so please read and review!
1. How It All Went Wrong

**Chapter One: How It All Went Wrong**

Emily fiddled nervously with the bouquet on the coffee table, not realising that she was shredding the flowers between her fingers. Of all the days for Richard to be late ... She glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. Would this nightmarish day never end? She sighed and looked at the room with dissatisfaction. Days of daydreaming, leafing through glossy magazines and bouncing ideas around with her sister, had turned the living room into a charming and comfortable space. Emily's signature, elegance coloured in pale pastels, was scrawled over all the walls of their home. It was a beautiful structure, dating from colonial times, with the original hardwood floors and bay windows and she had fallen in love with it at first sight. Set away from the street, cradled by trees more ancient than memory, it was the perfect place for two newlyweds. The moment Richard carried her across the threshold, holding her tightly and placing her down gently to avoid damaging her heels, she knew that her marriage in this house would be happy.

"_I know we aren't married yet," he said, with that shy boyishness he always had when doing something especially sweet, "but I felt that carrying you over the threshold needed a trial run. Can't risk dropping you on the big day. What do you think?"_

_Emily's eyes drank in the sight. The winter sun streaked in through the windows and though it was a wintry Connecticut day outside, it felt like summer inside. The sunbeams caught the light on the wooden floors and danced in merry waves, reflecting her own happiness. "Oh, Richard, it's simply marvellous!" _

"_It's a bit smaller than what we planned for ..." Richard began, following her around the house, "but I spoke with Charlie Davenport and he can recommend a good contractor if you want to add a few rooms."_

"_We'll do no such thing," Emily said briskly, horrified at the thought of changing the architectural integrity of the house. "This house is perfect as it is."_

_Richard watched his fiancé with bemused joy as she pulled out the measuring tape and notepad that was never far from her sight these days. They had hunted through the listings almost daily, speaking to realtors and using Emily's extensive social network to find any promising property. But no house had been the perfect fit for the newlyweds they would soon become – all either too big or too small, so old that it was crumbling around the foundations or so new that the smell of paint and cement still lingered. This one, though, seemed just right. _

"_We'll make this the master suite," Emily decided, looking at the biggest second floor bedroom. "We can have Charlie Davenport's contractor add some closet space on that side, with a door to the bathroom open on this side and, oh, do you think he can do wall-to-wall bookcases? We can turn the second bedroom into a study for you and mahogany bookcases with this floor would be exquisite. Oh, and Biddy Charleston discovered the most wonderful drapery. We simply must get new curtains. Heavy red velvet for the study, with a matching rug. And a soft, buttery yellow for the bedroom and of course we'll have blue and green for the bathrooms. Come help me measure."_

"_We might need the second bedroom for guests," Richard said, obediently taking the end of the measuring tape and helping her measure the windows. _

"_No, we don't," Emily objected with a laugh. "We have no friends. Or family."_

"_So we sent a multitude of wedding invitations to virtual strangers?" Richard replied. "Well, then, we'll need the bedroom for children."_

"_We have no children, unless you have some rather surprising news to share with me."_

"_I meant later."_

"_Well, we can put the bassinet under your desk and you can rock the little angel to sleep with your foot," Emily teased, jotting down the measurements. "And we can wallpaper your study in a light pink, replace the wooden floors with a soft white carpet and stencil bunnies on your ceiling."_

"_How resourceful you are!"_

_Emily smiled warmly at her soon-to-be-husband. "We'll need to put another desk in here, so I have some working space too."_

"_I thought being my loving and obedient wife was a full-time position," Richard objected with mock outrage. _

"_On my days off, I might just continue my studies. You know, I don't care for being an idle society wife with nothing more important to do than gossip and snip flowers and scold the maids for small mistakes." Emily grew serious as she measured the wall for bookshelves. "I enjoyed my studies at Brown. I'd like to continue with it. You know, they are making the most exciting discoveries in archaeology nowadays, completely confirming what art historians have been deducting from paintings and sculptures. We should really travel to Egypt and Israel to look at the excavation sites before all the treasures are entombed in old museums." _

_Richard's eyes softened as he watched her flit around, talking animatedly about art history as she noted more measurements. "Of course, darling. Whatever you want."_

And now that was all gone, Emily thought in despair, all the dreams she cherished and the hopes she once had. All of it. Egypt, Israel, her studies and travels, the image of her strolling across the yellow sands at Gaza with Richard all dissipating into the depressing vision of cravings, colic, crying and endless pink. After a few weeks of listlessness, a change in appetite and a seemingly permanent fluctuation in her mood, she had finally caved to her inner voice of caution and went to Doctor Sheffield's offices this morning. Though she should have expected it, the verdict still came as a shock.

"Emily, I'm home!"

Emily turned towards the door and almost ran toward her husband, flinging herself in his embrace, surprising him with her misery. "Oh, Richard, the most awful thing happened!"

Richard looked at her quizzically.

"I'm pregnant," she said, feeling the tears that had threatened all day spill across her cheeks. "I'm pregnant and now I'll never finish my dissertation and we won't travel to Israel and there won't be any excavation sites in Egypt left and ..."

"Darling, calm down," Richard entreated, stroking his wife's back reassuringly. "It'll all be all right."

"No, it won't. It won't be all right, because I'm pregnant and it's just ..."

Her voice gave way to sobs and Richard, helpless, wondered if he could give her a brandy to steady her nerves.

"Now, dear," he said, settling for using his most soothing voice instead, "I know it came as a shock for you, but it's ... well, it really is wonderful news."

"For you, yes!" Emily snapped. "You're not the one that'll have to give up everything. No martini's, no seafood, no coffee ... oh, God, no coffee!"

Richard rubbed her back in semi-circles as she collapsed against his chest, giving her a moment to collect herself. He steered her over to the couch when her sobs abated, handing her a handkerchief and his softest smile as she looked unhappily at him. "It's all going to be all right. I'll give up martini's and seafood and coffee with you and eat a lot of salt, so my ankles can swell up and we can be despondent together about not fitting into our shoes."

She rewarded him with a watery smile.

"Look, darling, it really will be all right. Once you get over the martini's and the seafood and the coffee, you will be happy about it too." Richard looked at her, hopelessly wondering how he could cheer her up. The image of his astute sister-in-law knocked on his mental door. "Why don't you meet Hope at the club for lunch tomorrow?"

Emily considered. "I think I will."

"Good. She'll make you feel all better about it," Richard said bracingly. "Now, how about some music before we have supper? Do you feel like Mozart or Beethoven? Or some Brahms, perhaps?"

Emily hardly heard his questions and her own replies as she looked at the coffee table, where the petals of a formerly beautiful bouquet lay. She couldn't help but feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, accentuated by Richard's obvious joy.

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"Oh, honey," Hope enveloped her younger sister in a bear hug, stepping away briefly to look at Emily's pale face. "And I can't even offer you a stiff whiskey to get over it all."

Emily grimaced. "Don't even mention food."

"Morning sickness?" Hope asked sympathetically.

"It's been a week since I've had anything resembling a meal," Emily grumbled as they walked into the club, seating themselves at their usual table. "And my cravings are nauseating. I felt like steak and kidney pie last night. Can you imagine!"

Hope laughed, her warm and throaty laugh spilling like golden syrup across the table. "No. I can't imagine you eating something as unglamorous as steak and kidney pie. You'll be wanting tripe next."

"Or haggis," Emily shuddered.

"Kool Aid."

"Beef jerky."

"Onion and liver."

"Oh, that actually sounds good," Emily enthused, her mouth watering at the thought of sautéed onions with thin slices of liver.

Hope looked horrified. "You really are pregnant, aren't you."

Emily nodded and then began to cry.

"Oh, honey," Hope said again, getting up from her seat to hug Emily fiercely. "Be upset if you want to be."

"I don't want to be," Emily hiccupped, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. "I want to be happy about this, because Richard is so happy. He's going to be a natural at being a father."

Hope looked at her, suddenly understanding. "You're scared, aren't you."

"Of what?" Emily sniffed.

"Of being pregnant. Of giving birth. Of being a mother."

"I ..."

Hope tucked a stray strand of hair behind Emily's ear, evoking the memory of their mother. "You remember how we used to play at Martha's Vineyard ever summer, pretending we were all grown up and running our own lives. I was always the nurse, Louisa was the housewife and you were the university professor. Motherhood was never on your list of goals, was it?"

"And now look at us," Emily said wryly, avoiding the question. "You are running around the world advertising cosmetics, Louisa is a nurse and I'm about to become the boring, useless housewife."

"You'll never be boring or useless," Hope admonished her. "And whatever you do, you do with such style and dignity that everybody just stands back and admires you. There's no reason why you can't be a mother and a university professor. Think big, Emily. Dream big. When have you done anything less?"

"Thanks, Hope," Emily said, the vision of diapers and sleepless nights filled with a colicky baby's cries slowly replaced by something else – a vision of motherhood that didn't mean denying her dreams, a way of being a mother and a wife as well as being Emily. She could finish her dissertation once the baby started sleeping through the nights. The time away from her project will be beneficial, lessening her tunnel vision. And perhaps some new discoveries will be made that could shine some conclusive light on the Mayan ruins ...

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"Emily. Emily."

"Go 'way," Emily mumbled sleepily.

"Emily, you need to wake up. We need to go the Schaeffers' cocktail party."

"Not til 'night." Emily turned over, pulling the heavy blanket over her head. "Now go 'way."

"Emily, it _is_ night."

Something in Richard's voice finally penetrated Emily's slumber and she bolted upright, glancing at the open windows with horror. It was indeed twilight, the sky already turning from the blue she vaguely remembered to a dusky pink which signalled that she should be dressed already. "But I just put down my head for a nap," Emily protested blearily, taking her robe from where she left it on the bed and pulling it around her. It fit a little too snugly and in her sleepy state, it took her a moment to put it on right.

Richard looked at her. "Emily, I'm worried about you."

"I overslept for a party. It is hardly cause for concern," Emily snapped, looking at the robe with dismay. It was another item on an increasing list of clothes that needed to be replaced. Her good intentions and big dreams had been eroded by the physical demands of being pregnant and she was feeling increasingly listless. Despite the fact that she was controlling her diet carefully, eating just enough to keep the baby growing and not indulging in all her sweet tooth cravings, she seemed to be putting on weight. And it wasn't just her belly, distending like an overripe pumpkin from her slender hips. Her hands and feet were too swollen for most of her shoes and her face had taken on a balloon-like quality. At their previous lunch meeting, Hope insisted that she had a beautiful pregnancy glow.

"_Pregnancy glow," Emily huffed. "Just perspiration from being permanently uncomfortable in all my favourite outfits, from spending every day feeling either nauseous or bloated and, most importantly, from acute caffeine withdrawal."_

_Hope studied her carefully over the brim of the delicate porcelain cup, wondering and weighing her words. "Are you this angry at Richard, too?"_

"_I'm not angry," Emily insisted, dissecting a Roquefort puff and leaving the slivers of pastry on her plate. "And Richard really has been wonderful. Gave up coffee with me and even offered to rub my feet last night."_

"_You know he is being wonderful, but you don't feel like he is being wonderful," Hope said shrewdly. "Intellectually, you know that he is being a loving and supportive husband. But emotionally, you're still mad at him for not being the one that has to suffer the pangs and the pains of pregnancy. And you resent him for wanting children without having to pay the price of discomfort, pain and morning sickness."_

_Emily felt her anger slip into the tears that were everready nowadays. _

"_Honey, you're going to have to accept this pregnancy," Hope said softly, reaching across the table to touch her sister's hand. "It's going to kill you if you don't."_

"Darling," Richard said, cupping her hands in his, "you have been very tired lately. Not at all your own self."

Emily smiled sheepishly, ashamed at her kneejerk anger and remembering Hope's prophecy. She really should appreciate Richard more, she thought, she should make an effort to include him and discuss her emotions with him rather than hiding it under a veneer of anger and spite. "I seem to get my morning sickness in the evening and spending one's evening in the bathroom is hardly conducive for a good night's rest."

"Yes, well," Richard cleared his throat, awkward and uncomfortable at discussing his wife's pregnant body. "Perhaps we should get Doctor Sheffield to prescribe you a little tonic to perk you up in the mornings."

"Coffee would perk me up in the mornings," Emily said wistfully. "Perhaps we can ask the cook to roast a few beans in the morning so that I can at least have the smell."

"The smell of coffee without a cup of coffee?" Richard asked. "I remembered what happened that day in that charming Parisian guesthouse when we woke too late for breakfast and there was no coffee left."

Emily smiled in sly victory. "It wasn't quite so charming then."

Feeling considerably cheered by the memory of their honeymoon, she began hunting through her closet for the dress she had wanted to wear tonight. She took it into the bathroom with her, smoothing the peach-coloured silk over her head and working it down her hips.

"Oh!"

"Emily?" Richard leapt to his feet and rushed to the bathroom. "Are you all right? Is the baby ..."

"I'm fine," Emily said, her voice muffled by peach silk. "This stupid dress is stuck."

Richard bit back a laugh at the sight of his usually impeccably dressed wife in a slip and stockings, blindfolded by a cocktail dress. "Let me help you get it off."

After a few wriggles and wiggles, Emily was released from the dress and looked at the puddle of cloth angrily. "I'm fourteen weeks pregnant and already too fat for all my clothes! That's it! I'm just walking around in a jogging suit from now on."

"You'll look so adorable that you'll start a new trend," Richard said, gathering her in his arms and kissing her forehead. "Why don't you take Hope shopping for maternity clothes tomorrow? I'm sure Bloomingfields will have some nice things for you."

Emily looked at him, momentarily perplexed. "Oh! You mean Bloomingdale's."

"Do I?" Richard asked. "Well, you'll know better than me."

"Thank you for putting up with me and my moods," Emily whispered, nestling closer to Richard.

"Thank you for giving birth to our child," Richard replied gamely. "Now, shall I get you a jogging suit for the cocktail party?"

"A purple velour one," Emily replied with a wisp of a smile, ignoring the sudden cramp in her stomach. "I'll meet you in the bedroom."

"I'll be the one holding the jogging suit," Richard said, closing the door softly and resting his head against the cool wall for a moment. It had been a demanding day at his office, as all the days have been. And instead of coming home to a restful house replete with music and good food and his wife's charming company, he was coming home to ... this. He glanced at the bedroom dispassionately. Emily hadn't gotten changed out of her pyjamas for three days running, pleading tiredness, and had kept the heavy bedroom curtains closed. Instead of shopping for new frocks which always pleased her, instead of sitting outside restfully in the garden which always revived her spirits, instead of sampling and tasting and dreaming up new delicacies to be served at supper, she was ... well, she was different. Dozing all day and always tired, eating very little and always upset about gaining weight, showing no interest in anything whatsoever.

Yes, it was becoming very difficult indeed.

Richard lifted his head as he heard a muted thump from the bathroom. He knocked on the door cautiously, not wanting to intrude in his wife's privacy. There was no reassuring response from within. "Emily?" He knocked again and, bracing himself, entered.

Emily was slumped on the floor, one arm bent at an awkward angle across her face, a red stain spreading across her slip.

Richard's ears sang with danger. "Emily!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Doctor Sheffield smiled his most heartening smile at the man in the rumpled tuxedo. "Your wife is resting comfortable, Mister Gilmore."

"Is she ... the baby ... How ..." Richard gulped his own words, unable to form phrases around the unimaginable horrors he'd been living as he waited in the hospital. The Admiral Brown Memorial Hospital in Hartford was one of the best in the world and, due to its innovative architecture and interior decorating, had been featured in many of the glossy magazines Emily so loved. But despite the administration's pride in their plush benches and soothing colour palettes, Richard was aware of nothing but dread knotting itself in his stomach.

"Your wife fainted, probably from having stood up too fast and not eating very much. A loss of appetite is common in pregnancies," Doctor Sheffield soothed. "The heartburn and the morning sickness don't encourage healthy eating habits, you know. She had a little bleeding from where she hit her hip against the bathtub. We stitched it up and did such a neat job of it that she won't even have a scar."

Richard tried to smile. "And her arm?"

"She twisted her wrist a little. We put that in a cast, so she'll have to rest that arm for a few days. In fact," Doctor Sheffield said, making a notation on his clipboard, "I'll encourage her to be a little less active during the next few days. Just get her to put her feet up and eat frequent snacks. Like a particularly soporific squirrel."

"Emily's been very inactive," Richard said, hating his implied criticism of his wife to a relative stranger. "I ... well, she's been sleeping a lot."

"The fatigue is also normal and will get better as the second trimester progresses," Doctor Sheffield said. "However, I do think you should consider having extra help around the house. Take the strain off your wife a little, let her relax a bit more. And with her arm in a cast and the stitches, she'll have to be very, very quiet for a few days."

Richard baulked at the thought of hiring another maid. "Emily is so meticulous and fastidious when it comes to household affairs. I wouldn't want to impose a stranger on her now."

"What about a relative? Perhaps an older sibling or mother?"

Richard felt a surge of powerful relief. Of course! _She_ would make sure that the house was run smoothly, that there would be fresh air and good food and wonderful conversation and all those creature comforts a man craves when he comes home from a stressful day at the office. _She_ would be perfectly capable of keeping all domestic and pregnancy-related crises to a controllable calm.

"Yes," Richard said, feeling himself smile. "I'll ask my mother to come stay with us."


	2. Who Am I To Disagree?

**Chapter Two: Who Am I To Disagree?**

Emily was prepared. The ceaseless battles with the sharply pointed words and the seemingly happy smiles, the unwavering criticism of her clothes and her hair and her shoes given in the guise of advice, all the many ways in which she was entirely unsuited to be a Gilmore – she was prepared for it all. She was even prepared for the blandly happy expression Richard had when surveying her clashes with his odious mother; she had long since realised that, like most mother-in-laws, Lorelai could do no wrong in her son's doting eyes.

But she was not prepared for the neat 'FOR SALE' sign hammered on her front lawn.

"Richard!" Emily exclaimed, struggling to get out of the car gracefully with her swollen stomach and stitches. She had been grateful that only Richard came to pick her up when she was discharged from the hospital and the gratitude had bolstered her resolve to behave. But how does one behave when finding one's house is up for sale without one's consent? Neither Emily Post nor Emily Gilmore knew. "What on earth ..."

"Yes, I've wanted to keep that as a little surprise for you," Richard said as he got her handbag from the car and smiled beguilingly.

Emily glared at him. "Selling my house out from underneath me is not a little surprise, Richard, it's an illegal eviction!"

"Now, Emily," Richard began. Doctor Sheffield had warned him to keep Emily's blood pressure low, avoiding the little skirmishes that often characterises married life. Trix's unselfish and selfless sacrifices in running the household, keeping things comfortable and cosy for them while Emily was pregnant, should make low blood pressure very easy to attain. He knew that Emily frequently indulged in minor spats with his mother – nothing serious, of course, nothing of concern, just the little sparks that fly when two strong-willed women rub up against each other. Just a sign of mutual affection that cannot be expressed in a more conventional way, he believes. But he didn't know how to ask her to behave with a little more propriety around his mother. "We always said we'd sell the house once we had children. With the property market the way it is ..."

"Oh, don't patronize me," Emily snarled. "I know as much about the property market as you do and what's more, I know that this property is perfect for us."

"Emily!" Trix chastised, scandalised, from the front porch. Her voice carried the correct gentle blend of dismay and criticism. "It is most unfit for you to be screeching like a fishwife selling day-old haddock on the street. And in your condition, too. It is just unheard of in the Gilmore family. I do hope that stubborn, fundamentally unsound streak wasn't passed on to my very first grandchild."

"Well, if it was, the baby will fit in perfectly," Emily muttered mutinously. She turned to Richard, her voice imploring. "I don't want to sell the house, Richard. It's the perfect house."

"For newlyweds, yes," Richard agreed, surveying the property with a professional eye. "We've managed the upkeep and we should get a rather fine offer. Which will allow us to buy the property Trix and I saw yesterday."

Emily's eyes widened. "You've already picked out another house for me? What, did you fill in the change of address card at the post office too?"

"Always so melodramatic," Trix murmured disapprovingly. "Come in out of the cold, you two. I am not the kind of mother who will risk my child catching his death of cold just because I have some silly feud to pursue."

"Yes, yes, come inside," Richard urged. "Trix brought some decaffeinated tea for you from England. A lovely Earl Grey blend with a citrusy overtone you'll love so much you'll forget all about your hankering for a cup of coffee."

Emily pursed her lips angrily on a blasphemous retort as she walked inside the house. She needed to cool down, to gather her wits, to sharpen her battleaxes. She struggled to take off her too small coat and the knowledge of Trix's critical stare made her even angrier. I'm not going to be beaten by my mother-in-law, she thought fiercely. I'm stronger than that.

"My, my, Emily, it really is time for you to purchase some maternity outfits. Richard, how can you let my daughter-in-law walk around in such ill-fitting clothes?" Trix chirruped.

"I've made arrangements with Hope to go shopping tomorrow," Emily said, trying to remain calm. Getting bated would not let her keep her house. Anger would make it too easy for Trix to convince Richard that she was irrational, melodramatic, too pregnant to be taken into consideration. And in the months until the baby is born and Trix finally goes away, there'll be more fights than just the selling of her dream home.

Trix tilted her head consideringly. "Ah, yes, is that the bohemian sister with the unfortunate choice in male companionship or your college friend with the wide hips?"

"I'm going to take a nap," Emily said abruptly, turning to walk up the stairs.

"Enjoy your rest, dear," Richard called up solicitously. "Once you've rested, Trix and I will take you to go see the property we have our eye on."

"Now, Richard," Trix said, herding her son into the tiny living room where she had the maid spread out a high tea to put the Tudors to shame. "Have a scone and some tea while you tell me what's been happening at your firm."

"Trix, Doctor Sheffield said we must make sure that Emily is comfortable and relaxed," Richard said, settling into his favourite armchair. "He's considered about the amount of swelling in her hands and feet and worried about pre-natal complications."

"Well," Trix scoffed, "I just don't agree with this newfangled philosophy to involve the father in all of the gruesome details. Pregnancy is nothing for a man to consider. You have your own worries, being the head of the household, without being inundated with medical details and complications that may or may not arise."

Richard had rather felt the same when Doctor Sheffield had cornered him in the hospital. At Richard's protest that it is more appropriate for the good doctor to consult with his patient, the doctor blithely replied that both parents should be kept abreast of developments. "You just have to make sure your wife is comfy. Try and keep most of the important decisions away from her and when she has any little aches or pains, you call me," the doctor said as he tucked a business card into Richard's jacket. Richard had disliked it. Immensely. The proprietary way in which the doctor touched him, the assumption that he would take control of Emily's life – as though she'd let anyone take control of her life! – the utter disregard for his own business and the presumption that, just because his wife was having a baby, the world was screeching to an end. He was supposed to take nine months off work to ensure that both wife and baby were comfortable, healthy and happy? Such nonsense!

Richard refused to see his attitude as selfish or petty. After all, the family relied on his income for the roof over their heads, the clothes on their backs and the food in their bellies, didn't they? In fact, his salary paid for Doctor Sheffield's casual assumptions. And how did he earn that salary? Was it by stressing forever about his wife's wellbeing? No. Was it by letting his responsible mother take the reins of the household? By Jove, he believed it was!

And how wonderful it was, he thought, to have somebody show some interest in his work again. "Well, Trix," he said, taking a heavily buttered scone from her, "something rather amusing happened with our London accounts ..."

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"It is such a monstrosity, Hope, I can't even begin to describe it," Emily said as she took a paisley-printed blouse from a hanger and scrutinised it. The house Richard and 'Trix' had their eyes on, was the polar opposite of her beloved little cottage amongst the trees. She had azaleas and agapanthus and scraggly little daisies growing all around their home, but the house that Richard wanted to buy had no grass in the front of the grey brick eyesore. "And it is too big for us even if we decided to have a Volkswagen stuffed with clowns over for the weekend. Just the ground floor has a lounge, two living rooms, an office, a kitchen you couldn't crash the Titanic in and a dining room that would've fit all of our founding fathers and their children!"

Hope chuckled as she handed Emily a floral skirt. "Sounds like you're exaggerating a little."

"I wish," Emily said as she inspected a kingfisher blue jersey dress. "You could probably hold the Olympic swim events in that pool."

"Well, that's one way of getting to know Don Shollander," Hope grinned, then became serious again. "The house is in a good neighbourhood, though."

"Oh, yes," Emily agreed. "Close to a lot of good schools, very safe, very secure. The head of the neighbourhood watch did a stint in the Korean War, you know."

"And I'm sure that the Olympic sized pool has an expansive backyard," Hope added.

"Mh-hm. Perfect little spot to build a rock garden, perhaps have a little African corner with some vibrant flowers, maybe some reeds around the pond ..." Emily began musing.

Hope smiled as she passed Emily a red wraparound dress. "So it's not all bad, is it?"

"I suppose not," Emily sighed. "I just ... our house is just the perfect little Snow White cottage, you know."

"I know," Hope said, putting her arm around her sister. "But now that the Seven Dwarfs are arriving, it's time to upgrade to a castle."

"Oh, goodness, I don't think I can have seven pregnancies," Emily shuddered. "Especially not if Trix is going to be hanging around with every one of them."

"All the more reason to build up an army. Strength in numbers, you know."

"I suppose. And if we have a daughter, she'll be able to back me up against her horrible crone of a grandmother." Emily smiled, almost wistfully, as she touched her stomach, forgetting the racks of maternity wear. "I've decided on baby names."

"Good," Hope enthused. "What have you decided?"

"Henry Richard if it's a boy," Emily said, thinking of her deceased father and hoping her son would inherit his dimples. "And Margaret Hope if it's a girl."

"Oh, Emily," Hope said, beyond touched. "You don't have to feel obligated ... I mean ..."

"I don't," Emily smiled. "I just want you to have something in common with your goddaughter."

"I do," Hope said, embracing her sister. "We won't let her be browbeaten into submission by her mother-in-law."

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End file.
